The Last Days of Disco (23 page)

Bobby and Joey left the girls sat in the snug bar, and went back to the hall, where a snaking queue had formed for the buffet.

‘Have ye got it, Joey?’ said an excited Bobby.

‘Aye, it’s here!’

‘Whit about the other two?’

‘Eh, aye … one ae them, an’ ah’ve definitely got the other yin as well here somewhere.’

‘Right, let’s go then. Put the lights down but just a wee bit an’ get the first yin lined up.’

Joey did as requested, prompting some turned heads from the assembled guests.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, while you enjoy yer food and a wee break from the disco, Heatwave is proud to present – singing a couple of well-known classics – Kilmarnock’s ain, Mr Bert Bole!’

There was only a ripple of applause this time, and Mickey glanced over with a worrying
What the fuck is this
? look on his face. When the instrumental version of ‘You’ve Lost that Loving Feeling’ started up, Bert emerged from the back of the stage and began singing, right on cue. It was a hesitant beginning for Bert but, by the end of the song, virtually everyone else in the hall was singing along. This was followed by a more confident version of Patsy Cline’s ‘Crazy’ and a triumphant rendition of ‘Can’t Take My Eyes off You’. By the final refrain of this last song, people were again out on the floor and turned as one to cheer for Bert when he had finished. Again, it had worked brilliantly.

Shorn of his curly Tom Jones wig, Ronseal-toned stage make-up and open-necked frilly shirt, Mickey hadn’t initially recognised Bert as the same Tony Palomino who had disgraced his daughter’s recent party. But Bobby’s alchemy seemingly knew no bounds. Mickey paid Bert £50, mainly because his old mum had told him to.

‘Aye, nice idea, Bobby,’ said Mickey. ‘Cost me a fifty spot, mind.’

‘Sorry about that, man. Ah didnae mean tae …’

‘It’s a’right. Other folk have come up tae me an’ asked if
they
can sing anaw. It’s fuckin’ bizarre!’ said Mickey Martin, shaking his head in disbelief that people would even want to sing along to an instrumental backing track in front of a hall full of strangers. ‘If
we could get them tae pay for doin’ it, then we’d really be ontae somethin’.’ Mickey winked at Joey. ‘We’ll keep it in mind for The Metropolis, eh?’ An arm was put round Bobby’s shoulders and its significance wasn’t lost on him.

‘Aye, Doc. A’right. We’re in.’

‘Ye ken it makes sense, son.’ And with that, he was gone. Back to join guests and relatives who were undoubtedly having one of the best nights they could remember.

In the very early hours of the morning that followed, Bobby looked up and winked at the poster of Rod that was looking back at him. He reflected on a truly memorable day. His girlfriend was lying beside him, looking beautiful. His best friend had gone home with a girl with whom he seemed besotted, and more crucially, she didn’t appear likely to alert the relevant authorities as a result. They’d just delivered a truly brilliant night and had decided to continue in the less stressful context of a nightclub residency. Hettie had been granted a dispensation to retake her exams during the summer, and Harry – after some rollercoaster emotions – was back on an even keel again. Most significantly, Gary was coming home, back from the dead. Only fears about his mother’s health and mental state remained, but, as his dad had recently acknowledged, the seeds for that concern had been sown well before Gary had even set sail.

As Bobby lifted the covers of his single bed to cop yet another sly look at Lizzie’s deliciously full breasts, he conceded that – at that precise moment – life was pretty fucking good.

17

THE HARDER THEY FALL

The anticipated media bombardment of Almond Avenue hadn’t materialised. There may have been a few extraneous reasons for this. The national UK media had been encouraged to move on somewhat by a government determined not to seem triumphalist in the wake of criticism from Margaret Thatcher’s
left-wing, loony
opponents. The
Scottish Sun
had drawn local public opprobrium with a thinly veiled suggestion that Gary Cassidy
wasn’t
a hero, but actually a deserter who’d run in the face of the battle. High-profile figures, such as Roy Jenkins – the newly elected MP for Glasgow Hillhead – had poured such scorn on this that the paper backed off after the one ridiculous headline to concentrate on a week-long debate about what names Prince Charles and Lady Diana Spencer would eventually settle on for their first-born child.

Harry also suspected that the higher-than-average police presence outside his door had something to do with Don McAllister. If that was his atonement for leaving Harry lying dazed in the car park of the Cochrane for the kitchen staff to come out and find, then frankly that was the
least
Harry would’ve expected. But he also hoped it would be the last event in a truly bizarre month-long game of cat-and-mouse, during which Harry sought at all costs to
maintain the status quo for everyone’s sake, particularly Gary’s.

Harry had cursed himself for the slip of the tongue that had alerted Don McAllister to the fact that he was Gary’s father. But, in more private moments, he had been astonished that it had never dawned on the copper before. Admittedly, his surreptitious dalliance with Ethel was brief. According to Ethel – and Harry had elected to believe her – they’d only slept together twice. Of course, Don wouldn’t have known that Harry and Ethel were sleeping in separate beds at that difficult time. The miscarriage of their first baby had hit Ethel very hard and Harry – never the most tactile of men – couldn’t give her the understanding and emotional comfort she needed. Don was a practised ladies’ man and saw the signs. Don knew he had taken advantage – Harry had been right about that – but his growing sense that he was untouchable in those days blinded him to the wider dangers. It was all too exciting, and therefore too tempting, for the young policeman. But it had proved to be a pivotal lesson for Don. In realising how close he had come to losing
another
wife, his resolve to change his ways had been genuine. Ethel had barely seen Don and her sister Mary since the day after Harry had caught them together. He hadn’t actually caught them in the act. Harry had come home early from work and Don had been in their living room, drinking tea with Ethel. But his police shirt was opened at the neck, and his police tie was still up in the bedroom. Ethel had burst into tears the minute she saw Harry walking up the path. It didn’t take too much detection on Harry’s part. As time passed, positions became entrenched and, for Ethel at least, it was simply less painful to re-open wounds that were more psychological than physical.

As Harry walked up to the main entrance of the hospital where his wife had been admitted two days earlier, he reflected that, with Gary’s return, it was unlikely that Don’s attempts to contact him would stop. In fact, Harry was sure that they would intensify. Although he’d made a breakthrough in talking directly to Gary in ways that he’d never been able to before, this wasn’t something
with which he could burden the boy over the phone, especially not now. Four of the five phone calls between them had been brief, and restricted to general updates about how Gary was feeling, how his family back home were coping and Gary’s concerned reports about his friend, Benny Lewis. The last call had been longer, though. It had taken place in the middle of the night for Harry, but he had been unable to sleep in any case. The older man had been surprised but pleased by the interruption.

Harry hadn’t contributed much to the conversation, as it turned out. His role was to be that of a sympathetic ear. It suited him well that night. He sat in the darkness, whisky in hand, listening to his son – and at that moment he’d never felt so strongly that Gary was
his
son – confront his fears, his nightmares and his attempts to rationalise the traumatic, life-changing experience that he’d just come through. In the end, Gary had tearfully admitted that he’d only joined the Army in the first place to earn his his father’s respect. He didn’t mean to imply that if it hadn’t been for Harry, this mental torment that he was going through would have been avoided. But that’s how Harry interpreted it, and it made him feel loathsome. Harry was desperate to tell the boy that for almost twenty years, it was
he
who had craved
Gary’s
esteem. But the words didn’t come. They’d have to wait until they were face-to-face, and that wouldn’t be long.

‘Hello, Mr Cassidy.’

‘How is she today, nurse?’

‘She’s been comfortable. She hasn’t eaten anythin’ so she’s had to go back on the drip, but I’m sure she’ll be pleased to see you.’

Harry thanked the young staff nurse and walked towards his wife’s single room.

‘Oh, by the way, Mr Cassidy,’ said the nurse. ‘I nearly forgot. Ethel’s sister came in to see her this morning. It wasn’t visiting time,
but Doctor Shapoor said we could make a wee exception.’

Harry was stunned.

‘Ethel got a wee bit of a shock and she was crying so we had to ask Mrs McAllister to come back later.’

Harry didn’t know what to say. All of a sudden, he could feel himself gasping for breath. It was already too warm in the ward, but it seemed to be getting hotter. Harry felt like he was going to be sick. A burning pain was beginning – and rapidly developing – across Harry’s mid-chest and up towards his left shoulder. As it radiated into his left arm and up into his jaw, Harry knew what was happening. So did Nurse Mackintosh.

‘Margo,
Margo
!’ she shouted. ‘This man is having a heart attack.’ These were the last words Harry heard before collapsing to the linoleum, feeling as if a Clydesdale horse had just kicked him, full-force in his rib-cage.

‘Ah told ye months ago, that if Grant ended up wi’ that fat bastard, after aw you’ve been through wi’ him, then you an’ me were finished.’ Senga stood in her kitchen. She was as calm as she could manage, determined not to prolong this or to allow her better nature to give the man she’d once loved a second chance.

Hobnail, for his part, had already known it was over the minute he saw Grant at Fat Franny’s side. There was no possibility of appeal, no Joe Beltrami sitting in the wings waiting with a cast-iron alibi to get him off.

‘Ah don’t care if this is aw
your
doin’ or no …’

‘How’th could it be ma dain’th, Thenga?’ He knew he was on the way out but that didn’t mean he’d go meekly. ‘The fat bathdard fuckin’th thacked us yethderday!’

‘Aye, ah ken Bob. Disnae say much that ye couldnae even haud
down a job wi’ the local gangster, does it? Or that ye were replaced by yer ain son!’ This was a bit underhand and a small part of Senga regretted saying it. But she’d lived a life of broken – and hidden – dreams, and since Grant had walked out on them ten days ago, saying he wouldn’t be back, Senga saw no point in continuing with this sham of a relationship any further. In a relatively short time they’d grown so far apart it was unbelieveable. She couldn’t now fathom how they’d stayed together for so long. It was a cultural expectation that people like her just
put up and shut up.
But Senga had changed much more than Bob had and, as a consequence, the action she was now taking was more opportunistic than last straw.

‘Ah want ye tae go, Bob. Ye canny say ye wurnae warned. We’ve talked about this afore. For the sake ae the weans ah dinnae want a fuss. Just pack a bag and go, eh?’

‘Go where, Thenga?’ pleaded Hobnail.

‘That’s no ma concern, now. Mates? Yer mam’s? No ma problem.’ Senga had her arms crossed and an impenetrable scowl that suggested even a Beltrami
on-top-of-his-game
would be wasting his time. Again, Senga knew she’d score a direct hit. Outside of Fat Franny’s crew, Hobnail had
never
had any mates; and as for his mother, he wasn’t even entirely sure she was still
alive
, such was the length of time since he’d spoken a word to her.

The door closed quietly behind him. Out with a whimper as opposed to a scream. That just totally summed up his life. It was a life of servitude to more charismatic people, and the only way of making his prescence felt was with his fists. Throwing his weight about – it was the only thing he knew, the only way to retaliate. As he walked aimlessly around the Onthank area, where he’d lived for the majority of his life, his mood worsened. He was utterly alone. Betrayed by his childhood friend and disposed of by a son he’d never even attempted to get to know. Hobnail knew he had major failings, but he wasn’t the only one.

He wandered past the old Mount Carmel Chapel, pausing to stare at the large Christ nailed to the stone cross over the front door.
He walked up Todhill Avenue and past the house where – as a man barely out of his teens – he’d administered a beating to a middle-aged man who owed Fat Franny a tenner. He walked on past the house in Amlaird Road where on Christmas Eve he’d taken a TV, a cooker and a collection of wrapped presents from a family whose repayments on a loan to the Fatman had been two weeks late. And on down into Onthank Drive, where he’d set fire to an ice-cream van because the old man inside wouldn’t pay the fat cunt thirty percent protection money. He kept walking. Senga was right. His life amounted to nothing. He kept walking. His kids didn’t know who he was. His wife didn’t want him. His only use was in battering people. Perhaps he should just accept this. And put it into practice one last time. He walked on. And on.

When he stopped, he was at the very top of Redding Avenue, outside the black-metal gates of the Ponderosie. This gaudy temple of shite, and an example of the worst of Thatcher-driven capitalism. The fat bastard had forced out the next-door neighbour as if he was J.R.
fucking
Ewing. He’d ‘bought’ both semi-detached ex-council houses, bludgeoned them together without permission and then
lorded
it over every tenant in the street, forcing most to seek a move and the others to pay a small fee for the price of the security his residency would afford them. Hobnail figured he could take Fat Franny, no problem. But he was rarely alone, and if Hobnail was to succeed in taking him out, he’d almost certainly have to get through Wullie the Painter’s men, Wullie himself, Hobnail’s kin Des Brick and, most worringly of all, possibly even Grant.

On this balmy Monday evening, though, there were no vehicles in the driveway. Maybe the fat prick was out. What should he do? Wait? Come back later? He’d psyched himself up over the last three hours of aimless wandering.
Too late to go back now.

‘Oh, hullo, Andy, son. Come on in. Francis isnae here just now, but c’mon in, anyway. It’s lovely tae see ye. How’s yer mam keepin’?’

‘Eh … em … ah’m fine, Mithus Duncan.’

The old woman walked away, talking to herself and leaving the
door wide open. When she turned round, Hobnail could see her floral skirt was partly tucked inside the waistband of her worn, greying knickers. He felt instantly sorry for her, and knew that he should leave, that he shouldn’t be doing any of this. But then he caught sight of something intriguing. It was Fat Franny’s safe, visible through the two hallway doors and beyond, in the recently completed kitchen extension. Hobnail stepped in. Fat Franny’s mum had wandered away, but Hobnail could still hear her – in a wee contented world of her own, having conversations with people long dead. Hobnail envied her this insulation from such a brutal life.

‘Andy?
Andy
! C’mon back tae bed. It’s nearly midnight!’ The voice from the other room jolted Hobnail into action. Fat Franny couldn’t have gone out for long. He wouldn’t have left his dotty old mum alone for any length of time, and he certainly wouldn’t have left the safe exposed with the framed picture that had concealed it –
a fucking horrible mawkish picture of a crying six-year-old
– lying discarded on the worktop. Some emergency must have drawn him away in a real hurry. Hobnail stared at the safe’s central dial. He gave it a hopeful turn in one direction, then again clockwise and finally a small one counterclockwise. The safe door opened. He had no gloves on, but was Fat Franny
really
going to report this to the cops?